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Walter Finds His Way

Walter peered over bifocals and rubbed a hand over his thinly bristled scalp. The shoulders of his charcoal gray suit sported prominent hanger marks and a layer of dust that made them look faded. A familiar but indistinct pressure brushed the nape of his neck, so he glanced back. Lorraine stood at the closet door with a stack of folded tee shirts, inspecting him with a mixed look of pity and patience.

"What are you doing, dear?"

"I'm getting my suit out for Church it needs dusting. I guess nobody we know has died or married for a while."

"Most men don't wear suits to church anymore. Try that blue plaid button down and your khakis."

"You're kidding no suits?"

His wife of twenty-eight years narrowed one eyebrow and arched the other, shook her head, and smiled. "No, and please don't call Reverend Conners 'Preacher Man'."

Walter turned back to his suit, muttered, "parole denied", and hung it at the end of the rack. He went out to the living room and settled into his recliner with Amanda's study Bible. The minister at their daughter's church, Jack Conners, said the footnotes might help prep him for the Sunday school series. He skimmed notes from the first five books, the Torah, but his attention waned before he made it into the Prophets.

They had bumped into each other at the trailhead last Saturday, when both Jack Conners and Walter were both getting ready for a jog. Conners asked about Amanda, how she liked college in California, and then described a four-session class he was going to teach on the Bible as literature. It was a condensed version of a three credit hour class he taught at the local college. The idea of an academic approach intrigued Walter, especially Conner's remarks about the influences of historical writing styles and ancient political and social events.

Walter left early the next morning while Lorraine was still in bed. He allowed extra time to find his way to the classroom and settle in without attracting undue attention. The Church lot was about half full, but somehow parking there didn't seem quite right, so he found a metered spot half a block down the street. A vagrant sitting on a bus stop bench at the street corner smiled at him and Walter nodded a good morning. He was an older black man with a scruffy beard and he wore an assortment of second hand sweaters, vests and coats - none of which fit very well. His eyes were bright and absent that furtive, lost look of many street people.

All the doors on the side and back were locked,

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